King For a Day
by Swellison
Summary: C'mon, Dean. It'll be like playing hooky, " Sam coaxed. "We'll do whatever you want; you can be king for a day." Sam tries to prevent the inevitable. A missing Tuesday from Mystery Spot.
1. Chapter 1

A/N King For a Day originally published in "You'll Thank Me When It's Wednesday" published by Whatever You Do, Don't Press.

King For a Day

by Swellison

Sam woke to silence and sunlight filtering through the flimsy off-white motel curtains. Not hearing Asia blaring "Heat of the Moment" disoriented him for a few seconds, as his last memory jarred through his mind.

_He walked down the street for the umpteenth time, Dean next to him. Trying to lighten Sam's mood, Dean suddenly changed his steps to an exaggerated strut and burst into song. "Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk, I'm a woman's man, no time to talk…" While Sam tried to wrap his head around the concept that Dean knew the words to a __disco__ song, Dean skipped to the chorus "Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive--"_

_Thwack! An arrow flew out of nowhere, piercing Dean's upper chest. He took a half-step forward, then fell to his knees._

_"Dean!" Sam went down on his knees, catching a hold of Dean as his brother sagged backwards, one hand feebly reaching to clutch the edge of Sam's drab jacket. There were no words, but Dean's eloquent green eyes spoke volumes in the seconds before Sam saw the light fade in them completely. _

_Dean was dead. Again. And again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and then one more time…._

"No!" Sam sat up in bed, his hazel eyes drawn to the old-style yellow clock on the nightstand between the two double beds. It was almost seven a.m., and the dreaded but expected "TUE" appeared in the lower left corner of the tri-sectioned clock face. "No," Sam lay back down, "I'm not doing this again. I'm NOT."

"Sammy?" Dean's sleepy voice spoke from the bed closer to the door. "Are you all right?"

"No." Sam whispered.

Seconds later, he felt Dean staring at him. Sam cracked his eyes open and saw Dean sitting on his own bed, his pajama-clad legs planted on the floor between the two beds. "Nightmare?" Dean's face tightened. "Or vision, maybe?"

_If I said it was a vision, you'd believe me, right? _"I don't wanna get out of bed," Sam sounded whiney, even to himself. "Wanna sleep in, and wake up to tomorrow."

"That's not like you. Where's Mr. Morning Person? Besides, we've got a hunt in progress, so get up, sleepyhead."

"No. Something bad's gonna happen to you, I just know it." _I can't do this anymore. Watch you die and then wake up to Dean No. 64 lip-synching to "Heat of the Moment."_

"Aw, Sammy, c'mon--"

"You're gonna die today--and then I wake up and it's Tuesday, again. I can't stop it and I can't watch that, not again." Sam sat up in bed, speaking earnestly. "I'm stuck in a time loop; I don't know how. At first, I thought it was the Mystery Spot, but I really don't know what's causing it."

"Sam, that's--"

"Crazy? Dingo ate my baby crazy?" Sam watched Dean start at his words. "Yeah, I know. Took the words right out of your mouth, right? You've said 'em before, Dean. That's how I knew what you were going to say."

"Or your psychic powers have come back and you _are_ a mind reader."

"Not funny, Dean. Nothing about today is funny."

"Okay, relax. Whatever's going on, we'll figure it out."

"Actually, you already did--two months of Tuesdays ago."

"And?"

"The way to break the time loop is for you to stay alive until Wednesday."

"Well, that sounds easy enough."

"It isn't." Sam shook his head and continued, "I've tried everything I can think of to keep you alive. And I've failed, sixty-two times." _And counting._

"We'll think of something." Dean started to rise to his feet. "Now, do you want first shower--?"

"No--_yes!_" Sam suddenly changed his mind, hearing Dean's yelp and the fatal thud as he slipped in the shower. _Wait a minute…. _He ran through all the ways that the motel room previously had been a death trap for Dean. "I've got it!"

Dean dropped back on his bed, staring at Sam. "Huh?"

"We need to control the environment, as much as possible. So, you're not going outside today." His eyes swept the green, blue and pink tourist trap motel room. "We're staying here, where I can keep an eye on you, all day."

"Sam--"

"C'mon, Dean. It'll be like playing hooky." Sam coaxed. "We'll do whatever you want; you can be king for a day."

"Whatever I want?" Dean sounded interested.

"As long as it passes the safety test."

Dean scowled. "And who decides what passes the safety test?"

"I do." Sam tapped his gray t-shirt on the chest. "Palace Security - and your one loyal subject."

"Okay." Dean grinned. "But I get first shower."

"_No!_" At Dean's startled gaze, Sam got to his feet, explaining. "Royalty doesn't take showers, Dean; that's for commoners. I'll draw your bath for you, your Highness."

"My god, you're a freak. Anyone ever tell you that?"

"You do, all the time." _And I wanna hear you say it tomorrow. _

Sam crossed the room in three long steps and disappeared into the small bathroom, which only held the tub and the commode. The sink with its long marble countertop was located in an alcove in the motel room proper, behind a pastel green grillwork divider. He quickly started Dean's bath, and then stepped back into the main room.

Dean was scrounging in his duffel for clean clothes. He pulled out a black t-shirt and set it on the bed.

Sam stared at the t-shirt and saw it soaked in blood, riddled with bullet holes, charred beyond recognition, ripped to bloody shreds, chomped in the distinct U pattern of alligator teeth, crushed under a tree, pierced by an arrow…. "No! Not that one." He grabbed Dean's duffel and sorted through it, hastily extracting an olive green t-shirt in its place. "Wear this, there's a stain on your black one." Without another word, he walked back to the bathroom, to check on the water level in the tub. He turned off the spigot, making sure that the water was hot but not scalding, and reappeared. "Your bath's ready."

Dean walked towards him, his jeans and t-shirt slung over one shoulder.

"One thing, Dean. You need to sing while you're bathing."

"Most people sing in the shower, not the tub." Dean pointed out, not unreasonably.

"We're not most people," Sam half-smiled. "I mean it. Either you sing, or I'm keeping watch from the toilet seat."

"Sam--"

"Hey, turnabout's fair play. You used to watch me all the time when I was little."

"I had to keep you safe--" Dean broke off and Sam watched his brother's expression change as he mentally took stock of everything that Sam hadn't said. "I died in the shower?"

"Slipped and fell, cracked your head open." Sam confirmed quietly. "I mean it; if you stop singing for more than five seconds, I'm coming in."

"Okay." Dean walked into the bathroom.

"And no shaving, either." Sam told his brother's back.

Dean turned around, looking a question, and Sam said, subdued, "Electrocuted." For a moment he flashed back to Nebraska, and Dean being electrocuted on a day that wasn't a Tuesday.

"Hey, I like the stubbled look," Dean tried to joke, and then shut the bathroom door, leaving it cracked open an inch. A few seconds later, Dean's singing penetrated into the main room. _"Mustang Sally, think you better slow your mustang down. Mustang Sally, think you better slow your mustang down."_

Sam sighed, relieved. He went over to his bed, trying to ignore the three-quarters life-sized pink flamingos painted on the wall behind the headboards. He began to systematically make his bed, smoothing out all of the wrinkles in the sheet before carefully pulling the blanket on top. Last, he placed the bedspread over the blanket, turning down the top two feet. Sam plumped his pillows, and then set them precisely flat, barely touching the rattan and wood headboard, overlapping the turned down bedspread by a few inches. Neatly folding the comforter over the pillows, he tucked the edge between the pillows and the headboard, and then karate chopped the front of the bedspread into an exacting crease along the front of the pillows.

He finished, about the same time that he heard Dean start belting out "Born To Be Wild." Next, Sam turned his attention to Dean's bed and made it to the same exacting standards. He fluffed Dean's pillows as Dean's final, drawn-out "…Wiiiiild" faded into silence. Sam placed the first pillow on the folded over bedspread, mentally counting.

_One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three-- _Sam took two long steps towards the bathroom just as he heard _"Back in black, I hit the sack…"_ emerge from behind the almost-closed door. Sam about-faced, stepped back to Dean's bed, and finished making it in short order.

As Sam gave Dean's bedspread a final straightening, Dean exited the bathroom, fully dressed except for his boots and socks. "Next."

"I'll be quick." Sam grabbed his clothes from his duffel and the last clean pink towel from the rack next to the sink. He turned around, for a moment seeing Dean sprawled lifelessly on the pale green rug between the beds and the TV, a vacuum cleaner cord wrapped tightly around his neck. One hand held a fluffy white bath towel, the other reached fruitlessly towards the cord that had strangled him. "Dean!"

"What?" Dean asked from across the room. He was seated in one of the S-shaped chairs with a slotted rattan back, pulling on his socks.

"Don't let the maid or anyone in," Sam ordered, noting that the Do Not Disturb sign was absent from the door handle.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, Sam. You know we never let the maids in."

"You're too close to the window," Sam said, worry evident in his tone. "C'mon back here and sit on your bed while I'm showering."

"I get all tingly when you take control like that."

"Quit screwing around and get over here."

"Sam--"

"I'm not Sam, I'm Palace Security, and I'm trying to keep you alive, jerk!"

Dean rose from the chair and padded over to his freshly made bed, plopping on the bedspread. "This is payback for me leaving you sitting in the middle of that motel room in Black Rock, isn't it?"

Sam shook his head. "Read my book or listen to the radio, but stay put. I'll only be a few minutes."

Dean reached for the old-fashioned clock radio, but before he could touch the knob, it burst into sound. _"--heat of the moment, telling me what your heart meant. Heat of the moment shone in your eyes--"_

"Hey, Asia." Dean grinned and began lip-synching and grooving to the beat. Sam flinched and glanced at the time: 7:30.

Sam straightened his shoulders and headed for the bathroom, determined to make this his shortest shower on record. Tuesday had just begun in earnest. Six minutes later, he was out of the shower and dressed in his blue and tan plaid shirt and jeans. He saw Dean gargling at the sink in complete disregard of his order to stay on the bed. _Pick your battles; he's all right, _Sam reminded himself, silently joining Dean at the sink.

He reached for his toothbrush and gingerly picked up the half-squished tube of toothpaste, eying the excess toothpaste ringing the top. _How does he manage to do that every time? _Sam carefully squeezed new paste onto his toothbrush and started brushing his teeth, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye.

Dean must've felt his gaze, because he started auditioning for the world's longest gargle, even showing off by blowing a bubble at the end. Then he spit into the sink and wiped his face with a pastel pink hand towel. Dean grinned. "Didn't we drive past a diner on the way through town last night? I could sure use a nice home-cooked breakfast." His stomach growled in emphasis.

Sam scowled. "What part of 'we're staying in the motel room' did you not understand?"

"Sheesh, royalty ain't what it's cracked up to be. I can't even get breakfast." Dean grumbled, his stomach rumbling in agreement.

"Dean, I didn't say you couldn't have breakfast; I said you couldn't have breakfast at the diner. Gimme a second and I'll whip up some oatmeal." Sam recapped the toothpaste and then crossed the room, heading for the kitchenette towards the front of their all-in-one quarters. After two months, he knew this motel room blindfolded. It was a typical Florida tourist trap motel, geared to a vacationing family on a budget. The tourist trap's owners apparently watched HGTV religiously. The kitchenette was a triple pair of built-in cabinets with a sink and microwave, but the cabinets were painted aqua to match the room's blue, green and flamingo color scheme.

Sam supposed the flamingos were meant to appeal to youngsters, but they were all over the room. Some of the circles in the grillwork that separated the bathroom alcove from the rest of the living quarters held small, iridescent flamingos, and the pattern on the pastel green wallpaper, which Sam had mistaken for flowers, was a single flamingo standing on a tuft of grass. Not to mention the impressive flamingo mural on the wall behind the beds, with four large flamingos in various poses.

The dorm-sized refrigerator was concealed behind an aqua painted wooden panel, blending in with the rest of the cupboard space, mimicking the current trend in high-end kitchens. He grabbed the oatmeal box from the center top cupboard and fished out two individual packets and two motel-supplied bowls. _Dean's partial to blueberry; maybe it'll put him in a better mood._ Sam tore the blueberry oatmeal packet open and poured it into the first bowl. He ran the tap water, guesstimating he'd added the required half-cup of water, and then popped the bowl into the microwave. While it cooked, Sam dumped the maple and brown sugar packet into the second bowl. He poured water on top of his oatmeal and swapped bowls when the microwave's timer dinged. Sam set the blueberry oatmeal on the countertop and located the silverware drawer, taking out two spoons. He took a bite out of Dean's oatmeal and heard his brother's footsteps behind him.

Sam turned around and handed Dean his oatmeal and a spoon, not hiding or apologizing for his taste test.

Dean took the bowl and sat at the small round table. "I died eating?" Sam heard the annoyed disbelief in Dean's tone.

"Choked on a sausage; poisoned by tacos. The sausage was at the diner, but you were here when you ate the tacos." Sam's voice was flat. "So I'm also the royal taste tester. Get used to it." Sam retrieved his oatmeal from the microwave and set it on the table. Three steps took him back to the cabinets and he stooped, taking two small cans of orange juice out of the refrigerator. He popped the tab on the first can and took a swig before handing it to Dean along with a straw. Grabbing his spoon and another straw, Sam stepped back to the table and sat down. They ate in comfortable silence, finishing quickly.

Dean licked the last spoonful of oatmeal and set his spoon down. "You're on KP. Royalty has its privileges, y'know."

Sam watched as Dean rose from the table and wandered over to the television, on a small stand under the half-wall, half-grillwork room divider. Dean angled the set towards the beds, and then walked back towards them, picking up the TV remote from the nightstand.

Sam returned his attention to the task at hand. Stacking the bowls, Sam had their eating area cleared and the dishes cleaned in no time. He strode back towards the beds, glancing idly at the television screen and froze.

"Look what's just starting," Dean, stretched out on top of his bed, smiled and pointed to the opening credits. "_Groundhog Da_y."

"Dean, I c-can't watch that. Not today." After seeing Dean die too many times, Sam had tried to adopt his brother's hard-as-nails exterior, but unexpected little things still crept past his shields, like this movie.

Dean's smile vanished and he flicked the channel over to the TV listings. He watched the programs scroll by for a few seconds before spotting a replacement movie. "How about _The Mummy_? I know the destruction of the library offends your geek sensibilities, but it's a good movie."

"Sounds good." Sam shook off his mood and flopped down on his bed. "I remember, the first time we saw this, you screamed like a girl when you saw the rat."

"I did not," Dean denied instantly.

"Did, too."

"Did not."

"Dude, you totally did." They'd been cooped up in another hotel room, Sam's junior year of high school almost over, on a weekend hunt with Dad. Dean had been recovering from a black dog attack and not at his best, but still….

"I did _not_." Dean took a breath and clicked over to the right channel. "Sammy, that's enough. Shut up and watch the damn movie."

Sam smirked. "Yes, your Majesty."

Dean rolled his eyes and they both turned their attention to the eye-catching opening sequence to _The Mummy. _They thoroughly enjoyed their escape to 1920's Egypt and beyond time to Hamunaptra, comparing the movie's special effects to some of their real-life encounters. _The Mummy Returns _aired directly after the first movie, so they kept on watching and the morning passed more easily than Sam had imagined.

TBC

Hope you're enjoying the day so far….

10


	2. Chapter 2

Here's the rest of the story. Any guesses as to how Dean dies this time? Read on….

King For a Day

"Thank you," Sam paid the pizza delivery boy with a healthy tip, and then firmly closed the door. He carried the box over to the table and deposited it and the 2-liter bottle of Coke in his other hand on the tabletop. He had phoned in the order after the second movie finished, Dean insisting that the only acceptable pizza was the supreme, ultimate, everything pizza with extra onions and hand-tossed crust. Extra large, of course.

Sam grabbed two plates, two glasses and a knife from the kitchenette's cabinets, and then returned to the table, Dean already seated there. Sam opened the pizza box, grabbed the first slice and took a bite. Then he set the piece on the plate, picked up a knife and cut it across the top, just below his uneven bite mark. He picked up another piece, took a bite, placed the slice on the same plate and evened its top with the knife.

"Here." He passed the plate with its two now trapezoidal shaped slices to Dean.

"The tips are the best part," Dean pouted.

In answer, Sam picked up the third piece, reversed it and took a bite out of its crust before placing it on his plate. He cut around the bite and placed the slice on Dean's plate, too. Then Sam grabbed two pieces from the box, dumped them on his own plate and started eating. After a few bites, he put his first slice down and poured himself a glass of Coke, sampling it before pouring a second glass for Dean.

Dean glanced from the glass to Sam, and then his gaze flicked away.

"What?"

Dean remained silent, so Sam asked again, "Dean, what?"

Dean bit into his second pizza slice. "Kinda nice, having someone watch out for me," he mumbled in between bites.

"Yeah," Sam agreed quietly. "I always thought so." They continued to eat lunch, Dean making no comment when Sam sampled the crust on three more pieces before passing them on to his older brother to consume.

Sam quickly bussed the table after they finished with lunch. He reseated himself, waiting for Dean's next command.

"I wanna play poker," Dean said.

"Okay," Sam was on his feet, "I'll get the cards." He stepped further into the room, fished the playing cards from his duffel bag and returned to the table. The cards he returned with were the basic, no-frills red Bicycle playing cards. Sam opened the box and started shuffling, leaving the two jokers in the box. He placed the shuffled deck in the center of the table, inviting Dean to cut the cards.

"We're playing for money," Dean said as he picked up about a third of the deck, placed it next to the existing pile, and then stacked that pile on top of the newer one. "Dealer's choice." His hand hovered over the deck for a second, then he picked up roughly half of the cards and turned them over, exposing the king of clubs. "Top that," he challenged, placing the cards back on top of the pile.

Sam unconcernedly reached for the deck, cut it and flipped the stack over to reveal his card: the ace of spades. The death card, but it wasn't his own life he was worried about, not today. Sam snuck a quick glance at his brother's face, but Dean clearly had his poker face already in place. Shaking his head slightly, Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, extracting all his folding money and placing it on the table. He plucked a five from his stake, folded it in half the long way and pitched it into the pot. Then he picked up the deck and started dealing. "We're going to play a variation of Follow the Queen," he said, smiling.

Dean rolled his eyes but refrained from comment.

While Sam liked the wild card and pot-splitting varieties of poker, he knew Dean preferred the basic games of draw and stud poker. Sam also knew that those were his brother's bread-and-butter games, and that Dean had financed more than a few hunts and motel rooms over the years with his winnings.

"In your honor, we're playing Follow the King," Sam said as he dealt two rounds of hole cards. "Seven card stud, and the card following the king is wild." Sam dealt the first round of faceup cards, not exposing any kings and they settled in for some serious poker playing.

Sam won the first round, and the deal was passed to Dean, who called five-card draw and won a forty dollar pot. From there they played spit in the ocean, seven card stud, baseball, Texas hold'em, lowball, Chicago, etc. Just before four, Sam called a halt in the game, after Dean raked in the last pot.

Getting up from the table, Sam said, "I've got a treat for you, your Highness." He strolled back towards the beds and picked up the remote. Dean followed, his curiosity piqued. "An audience with the Queen," Sam intoned solemnly, and flicked the television on. "The Oprah Winfrey Show" credits sprawled across the screen and Sam quietly chuckled.

* * * * * * *

Dean wanted Chinese food for dinner, but there was a snag. None of the three Chinese restaurants in town delivered. Sam was adamant that he was not going to pick up the food, either by himself or with Dean accompanying him. Neither one of them was leaving the motel room today, period.

"Some brother you are," Dean muttered, a low blow indeed.

Sam bit his lip, and then counted to ten. He sat up in bed, extracted his cell phone and scrolled through the recently dialed numbers, calling the nearest Chinese restaurant. "Hello, I'd like to place an order, please…One mooshi pork, one orange beef extra spicy, one order steamed pork dumplings, one hot and sour soup, and one wonton soup… That's for pick up…Everly… How much is it?...And it'll be ready in half an hour?...Thank you, goodbye." He ended the call and set his cell phone down on the table.

"Thought you said you weren't going to leave the motel room," Dean said from where he was stretched out on his bed. Oprah was over, and they'd kept the TV on, with the local news serving as background noise.

"I'm not." Sam swung his legs over the side of his bed, reaching for the motel phone on the nightstand between the two beds. He dialed the front desk. "Hello, this is Mr. Everly in room 22. I've got a favor to ask… My brother's sick and I don't want to leave him alone. He's craving Chinese food but they don't deliver...First sign of an appetite he's had in days…Could you possibly send one of your staff to-….Yes, that's it. Thanks so much, I'll compensate your driver and reimburse you for the food, of course…It's the China Garden, they said the order would be ready in half an hour…Everly, that's right. Thanks again, ma'am. Goodbye."

Sam hung up the phone, to find Dean eying him admiringly. "What?"

"I'm impressed, Sammy." Dean also shifted into a sitting position, legs on the floor. "Your puppy dog eyes work even over the phone. I'll have to remember that."

Sam shrugged. "You said you wanted Chinese, I got you Chinese, your Majesty."

"Y'know, your've been calling me that all day-'your Majesty', 'your Highness', why can't you call me King Dean?"

Sam's mouth twitched. "You wish to be addressed as 'King Dean?'"

"Why not? You said I was king for a day, and it has a nice ring to it."

"Or just King?"

"Dude, that sounds like a dog's name."

"Exactly." Sam grinned and Dean leaned over and whapped him on the back of the head. Sam relished the contact: anything to replace the images he had of Dean's hand feebly grabbing his shirt or wrist before his big brother died in his arms, again.

"That's better, " Dean said. "Now, I think we can squeeze in a hand or two of poker before dinner gets here." He headed for the table. "I'll give you a chance to win back some of your pocket money."

"You're all heart, King Dean." Sam rose from his bed, following.

"Course I am; I'm a joy to be around."

* * * * * * *

Dinner was scrumptious. Chinese food was meant to be shared, so Sam's taste testing, while just as thorough, wasn't as obvious as it had been at breakfast and lunch. Dean, mellowed by a full stomach, wanted to play more cards after their meal, but he chose cribbage instead of poker. They got in almost three games before turning on the TV at 8 to catch NCIS. It was a rerun; but they'd been busy battling something supernatural the first time it aired, so it was new to them. Sam found an acceptable 9:00 movie, _Speed. _("Jack Traven's a cop, but he's a cool cop," Dean had explained.)

_Speed _'s ending credits scrolled across the TV screen, and then Dean hit the remote. The set clicked off and Dean rose from his bed, stretching his legs.

Sam watched from his bed as Dean walked towards the front door, then reversed and strode back towards the beds. Despite practically living in motel rooms, Dean didn't take being cooped up very well. Sam knew that Dean's usual cure for the walls closing in was escaping to the Impala or a bar, but neither was an option tonight. "Wanna play some more cribbage?"

"No." Dean turned around and walked back towards the door.

"Poker?"

"No." Dean returned.

"Crazy Eights?"

"No."

"Eye Spy?" Sam figured he had a huge advantage with that game, at least. He could picture and describe every little thing in their room, down to the tiniest detail.

"No." Dean resumed pacing. He stopped when he approached the beds, glancing at Sam. "Wanna spar? You up for a little mano-a-mano action, bro?"

"NO." Sam answered too forcefully, earning Dean's stare. "No sparring, no lunging, no kickboxing. There isn't enough room." Sam blinked away the sudden flashback to the Mystery Spot, and grappling with Dean over an axe that got away from them both, ending up lodged in Dean's chest. He was NOT going to accidentally kill his brother again. Sam got his voice back to normal. "You can do push-ups, or, hey, sit-ups. I'll even hold your ankles down for you."

"My god, you're weird." Dean muttered, walking back towards the front of their room. He halted a step away from the door, and Sam thought for one crazy moment that Dean was going to just fling open the door and leave. Instead, Dean turned towards the highboy located near the door, bent over and opened the bottom dresser drawer. He pulled out the weapons bag and a spare sheet and closed the drawer. Then Dean walked back to his bed and dropped the bag on it. He looked squarely at Sam. "Don't even think it. The day I can't clean my own weapons is the day I--"

"Hey," Sam interrupted. "I'm not saying anything. I know cleaning weapons is therapeutic for you, Dean." He motioned towards the unopened bag. "Go ahead; it'll calm you down."

Dean sat down at the head of his bed, spreading out the sheet in front of him. Then he pulled the weapons bag closer, unzipped it and withdrew the knife sharpener and his favorite knife. He folded his legs under him, Indian-style and began sharpening the knife. A minute later he spoke to Sam, keeping his eyes on the knife blade's even strokes. "Quit vulturing, Sammy. I can feel your eyes boring a hole in my head."

"Sorry," Sam mumbled. He rose from his bed, snatched up the computer satchel and walked over to the table. He removed the laptop from the satchel and placed it on the tabletop. While waiting for the laptop to power up, he settled in the chair closer to the front door, and then positioned the remaining chair so he could rest his legs on its seat. This left him angled towards Dean, so he could still keep an eye on his brother. Meanwhile, he might as well get a little research done on Dexter Hasselback. Sam found an article written by Hasselback and started reading. At the end of the first page, he surreptitiously checked on Dean.

Dean had finished cleaning his knife and was now working on a shotgun, Sam noted, then returned his attention to the article he was reading online.

Time passed quietly, Sam surreptitiously checking on Dean's progress with his weapons-cleaning at the end of every screen page of Hasselback's writing. Sam rapidly concluded that Hasselback thought more about himself than anything that he was writing about. He finished another page and glanced over at Dean.

Dean had just cleaned his favorite weapon, and the Desert Eagle lay gleaming in his hand. "You can't save me, Sammy."

"What?"

"I know you've been trying, and giving it your all, but you can't save me--not from the deal."

"Dean, _I can. _We still have time." Sam said earnestly, pouring all his conviction into his voice.

"But maybe I can save myself. Crossroads demon can't collect if there's no one to collect from." Dean's words covered the sound of the safety being released from his gun.

"What? Dean--" Sam's legs became tangled in the opposite chair as he sought to rise, spine tingling in warning.

"Don't look, Sammy. _Please." _Dean smoothly slid the Desert Eagle under his chin and pulled the trigger.

Sam's "NOOOO!" was drowned out by the blast of a single shot.

Dean's body fell backwards, propelled by the force of the bullet, blood splattering the wall behind him. Sam jumped to his feet and staggered the few steps over to Dean's bed. Sam couldn't look at the bloody mess that had been his brother's face, so he forced his eyes upward, dully tracking the blood spattered liberally on the wall, turning the flamingo's painted pink feathers crimson with fresh blood. His gaze followed the blood trail towards the back wall, and then dropped to the nightstand, which had also been spattered.

Sam stared glassily at the yellow clock face as blood dripped down its plastic case, blurring but not completely obscuring the hands of the clock as it moved from 11:58 to 11:59. _Almost made it. Almost…. _

* * * * * * *

Sam woke to silence and sunlight streaking into the room past the motel's thin curtains. His heart pounded as he recalled Dean's latest death: his brother had committed suicide right in front of his own eyes. _No. That's just wrong. Dean doesn't quit anything, much less… _

He froze, struck by an awful thought. _What if, by killing himself, Dean had somehow closed the time loop, and it was Wednesday? NOOO! It can't be, it can't be._ Sam swallowed. _All you have to do is look at the clock, and you'll know…. _Sam steeled himself to open his eyes_, _and realized he didn't have the strength to do it. Didn't want the growing pit in his stomach to become reality. Didn't want to know that he was the last Winchester. Didn't want to be alone….

"--heat of the moment, telling me what your heart meant. Heat of the moment shone in your eyes--" the radio blared to life.

Sam sprang up in bed, eyes wide open as they sought and found Dean, sitting on the other bed, tying his boot.

Dean smiled at him. "Asia," he said approvingly, and then he reached over to the radio, cranking up the volume. He pointed a finger at Sam and started lip-synching . "Heat of the moment shone in your eyes-"

Sam shifted his focus to the clock and read the time and day. It was Tuesday again. _Thank God._

*****

Thanks for reading! Really would like your opinion on this, did you guess the end or were you totally surprised?

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